A Man of the Revolution
by symphony-regina
Summary: Probably one of the strangest insights into why Jean 'Jehan' Prouvaire is so... girly. Does not follow canon, sadly, which makes me want to sob. Please review! Flames will be used to heat my cold body. Heh.


**A/N: Before anyone flames the living daylights out of me, I did not have canon in mind whilst writing this. The idea came to me in the middle of the night and I scribbled the draft down on a piece of scrap paper. I _know_** **Jehan's an only son. But… Heh. **

Thomas, Antoine, Charles, Domenique, René, Julien.

They were all the sons of Thomas and Charlotte Prouvaire, two very respectable people from the Southern areas of France. They were all very splendid young men that did their family proud: Antoine grew to be a well-known doctor in Marseilles; Thomas II, a lawyer, won very famous cases; and Charles published works in famous magazines. _Pages_ upon pages could be filled with their feats, yet all sic of them could not fulfill Charlotte Prouvaire's single, desperate wish.

After so many years of childbirth and childrearing, she could not produce a female child that lived past three months. She dearly wanted a daughter she could knit dresses for, make lace, et cetera et cetera… everything girlish. It was a secret desire she harboured for so many years, and she thought it was impossible because she could not control the gender of her child and her husband Thomas would not want too many daughters. Over two decades came and went, she was just about to give up hope.

Jean-Marie Prouvaire was the very last child Charlotte bore, just before she couldn't bear anymore. He was named after Jean, Thomas's brother, and Marie, the revered saint. He was delicate, like Emmeline, the little girl who died of a sickness a few weeks after being born. That's it, Jean-Marie was almost like a duplicate of Emmeline.

By that time, Thomas, at the peak of his golden days, was nearly drained of pride. So many sons, so many achievements. It seemed that life was going so perfectly for him. That was when Charlotte reminded him, quietly, at the dinner table, about Emmeline. "Ah yes," he said politely, remorsefully, "she was such a beautiful one."

But he did not say anything more.

Charlotte, near frenzied, was determined to have something of a daughter, and Jean-Marie seemed to be her last chance.

As you may know, people tend to forget logic or even common sense when in moments of desperation. And Charlotte, who was quite in desperation, was running out of options. Thomas would murder her on sight if she adopted any orphan, she was too old to have more children and she was not smart enough to think of any other options. Ever since Domenique was born she had wanted a daughter. One that laughed and sang.

So, one day, she looked at Jean-Marie and smiled.

It was well known that Thomas Prouvaire liked to teach his sons the way of fencing: how to handle an elegant sword like a dancer while being as deadly as a warrior. Charlotte would _not_ allow her last chance (even after the years it was still quite true) to be violent, and convinced Thomas that Jean was too sickly to go out. Stage make-up was applied to his face to give him pallor and medicine was administered so he would vomit. Thomas believed it, his brain a little weary and blurry after the years.

Charlotte had a little room in their home for writing letters. That became Jean-Marie's little academic hideaway, where his mother would sneak him works of poetry: Dante, Shakespeare, Victor Hugo…anything she could pinch from the library without arising suspicion.

Jean-Marie thrived under his mother. He grew to love poetry, the way words seemed like honey against one's tongue. He loved the arts more than anything in the world. In fact, he even went as far as picking up another form of art: music.

Charlotte had bought him a pretty silver flute for his tenth birthday. Lessons were given to him and he grew to love it almost as much as he loved poetry. Who knew that little blobs on paper, a silver stick punctured with holes, could give one so much joy? His soul seemed to escape from the holes of his flute. He would spend hours practising little melodies until he cried.

Yet…there was always something missing in Jean. He lacked a father figure, as Thomas had died in a foolish duel when Jean was six. He was, in a sense, a mother's boy. It was obvious from the minute he opened his pink, girlish mouth. Without a masculine idol in a good deal of his life he grew up differently than his brothers. Some would say he was a half-woman, half-man. His face was despicably effeminate, like his late sister, and he dressed almost like a woman, which made his style outlandish. Breeches and ribbons, lace and pantaloons…

At home, no one paid much attention or dared to insult the pansy little son of the rich Prouvaires, but as soon as he grew older and left for Paris, things came to reality.

Évariste Courfeyrac called him a "eunuch in looks" for his feminine voice and face. Yet he took a liking to the boy, not very much younger than he. Évariste was, in some way, Jean's protector and guarded the innocent young lad from the prostitutes that frequented slums and the thieves that would want nothing more than to rip the gold from his pockets.

Olivier Combeferre found him to be amusing, quite. A young boy who philosophized through rhyme and prose. Indeed a very interesting case. Romantic, childish, innocent, he was a child of France. Olivier talked to him of life and showed him the suffering of the based. Jean listened happily.

Marc Feuilly found him interesting as well. He was quite the opposite of Orphan-Mark, who had never work velvet or had golden buckles on his shoes. Yet both had an eye for beauty that so few possessed, as they were both artists in their own way. Ink was their tool of trade and they found themselves bonding over the same bottle of it every night.

Armand Enjolras, finally, found his mind like a blob of clay that had been formed by Olivier's ideals, someone's poetry and a natural sense of right and wrong. Like Olivier said, he was a perfect child of the Republic, regretting nothing but the loss of one aristocratic head. He would, Armand concluded, make a fine addition to their society.

In the end, none of that mattered. his last words, in front of a vicious squad, made all his mother's work useless. He was a man of the revolution. A man of the Republic.


End file.
